The Dancing Dead
by Sorrel Wood
Summary: Set pre-fall, Sherlock has another case. Nothing more to it. Lestrade calls Sherlock in after a tube bombing when he finds suspicious drawings on the tunnel wall, to see what he makes of it. Sherlock is drawn in, intrigued as to uncover the message that lies behind all the obscurity, but what Sherlock does not expect, is that what he finds, may lead to his own past. (No pairing)
1. Tinker, Psycho, Soldier, Doc

**Corrections are always helpful, sorry for the shortness. It isn't necessary to read this chapter, as this is just a prologue, really: an edited version of Sherlock and Watson's first meeting. Special thanks to ShushI'mAReaderInBed.**

He walked in with swift flourish of his long, dark coat, passing the two visitors with no intention of conversation whatsoever. They were in the Morgue Lab of the two guests' training school, where they studied to be doctors: St. Bartholomew's Hospital. Unfortunately for the man who had just entered, what his intentions were weren't the others' concern at that moment.

"It's not like in my day." The slimmer of the two looked around at the flash new equipment, gleaming in the fluorescent light.

"Sherlock, I would like you to meet-" It was the pudgier guest who spoke to him, but he was cut short by the sharp tones of Sherlock Holmes, who was inspecting a surprisingly wriggly, for a meant-to-be-dead specimen that is, part of a something-or-rather, down a microscope. The fuller figured man had a hand pointing at the (also of a meagre height) tanned man beside him. The man, who was introducing his friend, went by the name of Mike Stamford.

"Don't you think I already know what he is? You should have learnt that by now." Sherlock rose from his study of the squirmy thing, and plucked a test tube from behind him.

"_What_ I am, sorry?" The man who Sherlock spoke of interrupted his incessant muttering. The new comer leant on his stick as he questioned. He held a cane, due to the limp in his leg. He was an ex-army doctor from Afghanistan, after he was decommissioned for the British forces when shot.

"Yes. Did you not here me the first time?" Sherlock asked breezily, amused. He still wasn't addressing them directly and continued mixing a series of what not.

"Sorry, but what does he mean by 'what' I am." The soldier asked Stamford, his escort to St. Bart's.

"Don't worry," Stamford chuckled. "He's always like this. He could tell you almost anything, but he couldn't remember your name for the life of him, even after five years of working together. I doubt he knows mine, he didn't last week! If you asked him how he figures such things out, he would say it is the 'science of deduction'. He has a website on the subject. He's a bit of a psychopath you know."

"How many times do I have to tell you I'm a hyper-functioning sociopath! I need to borrow your phone." Back hunched over the microscope, Sherlock extended a waiting hand for Stamford's mobile.

"Sorry, out of charge, Sherlock." Stamford sighed.

"Here, use mine." The captain handed over his phone. Sherlock stood up at this.

"What's your name?" Sherlock flicked through stuff on the cell.

"I thought you knew?" He raised an eyebrow, wondering if Stamford's theory was correct, and Sherlock would surprise him, but Sherlock seemed too engrossed in what he was searching on the phone to bother answering. "Watson, John Watson." For the first time, Watson could get more than a glance of the man's face. He had short, dark, slightly curly hair that stood out against his pale features. Sherlock handed the phone back.

"So I'll be seeing you at 221b Baker Street at 6:00pm sharp. Mrs Hudson, the land lady, will be showing us round the flat, if you are willing to rent it with me." Sherlock exited the lab, but popped his head round a moment later. "Also, Afghanistan or Iraq?"

"How... Afghanistan." Watson spluttered.

"Hmm, I thought so. I'll explain it to you at Baker Street if you wish. Sherlock Holmes, nice to meet you. Goodbye." Watson opened his mouth slightly.

"No need to say anything, I already know. Get used to it if you want to have a place to rent." Stamford picked up his brief case and made for the exit.

"Wait, what is he?" Watson turned Stamford around.

"A consultant detective."

"That doesn't exist."

"Does now." He left.

Watson was dumbfounded and could barely believe his ears. Stuck in his own world of awe, he jumped at the sound of the door opening. A slight young woman entered, with mousy brown hair and crimson red lipstick. She was wearing a lab coat; Watson assumed she worked at the morgue there.

"Have you seen Sherlock? - Oh, hello. I thought you were someone else." She spoke in a trembling voice, peeking round the doorframe.

"Yes I have seen him, but he left just a moment ago." Watson informed her. "What's your name? I'm John Watson."

"Oh, sorry I didn't introduce myself. I'm Molly Hooper." She smiled weakly. "How do you know Sherlock?" Molly entered with an over flowing crate of files.

"Do you need help with that?" Watson took half of the stack from the top and managed to put them on a near by working surface without his stick. "An old friend introduced me to him on the subject of renting a flat with him. Do you know if he is good company? He certainly has a complex mind for things." He took up his cane again.

"Oh no, but I know how intelligent he is… He studies bodies here a lot. For his work, you know…" She trailed off. "Thank you, John Watson. Err... I'll see you around then." She waved and shut the door behind her.

"She seemed nice." Watson hobbled outside. It was getting dark. Watson signalled a taxi and hopped in.

"221b Baker Street please."

"On our way, sir." The taxi driver steered off the curb and into the main road. "So y' know him then? Better than all the police put together they say. London's saviour. A pain in the neck though too, apparently."

"Really? I'm looking round a flat to rent with him there."

"I pity ya. Save yourself and get a less psychotic roommate." They swerved round a corner.

"I think he's a sociopath, actually."

"Still crazy." The driver chuckled. Watson stared out the car window into the rain. For the first time since he had returned from the ranks, he was smiling.


	2. Boring

A year or so later...

"Sherlock? Get up, we're going now. Time to visit Mrs Hudson's sister." Watson called from the hall into the main room. "Come on." He heard scuffling of heavy wooden objects. "What are you doing in there?"

Watson stepped into the room, only to be greeted with a not so soft pillow directed in his face. He dodged it with minimum difficulty. "I see I might have to persuade you by force, then." Watson observed, surveying the scene before him.

"I don't want to. Mrs Hudson's sister is boring." A stubborn voice came up from nowhere.

"You haven't even met her, how can you judge?"

"She's an old maid, with only dogs for company, what more do you want?"

"You might have a point…"

Watson was trying to haul Sherlock up from the sofa, which was proving especially difficult as he was getting ambushed by high-speed cushions.

"Why on earth do you have a fort?" Watson batted the flying objects that had evolved from cushions (after Sherlock ran out) into becoming increasingly dangerous artefacts. "Hey! That's my duvet!" Watson spotted it in amongst the clutter.

"Well, I was looking for bed sheets but Mrs Hudson had put yours in the wash, so I had to use this instead. Don't worry; it'll serve the same purpose." Sherlock repositioned the shredded cloth, dangling over the mound of furniture as a roof. A hole opened in the middle and a series of household objects catapulted out. Sherlock continued bombarding his friend with objects.

"Why couldn't you use your own bed sheets for God's sake?" Watson glared, weaving in and out of the oncoming missiles.

"Because I was planning to sleep on them of course! Really John, have your deduction skills got that bad?"

"And I suppose you assumed I wasn't going to sleep with a quilt then?" Watson was slowly edging his way up to the barracks.

"Well obviously, I'm using your cover. You can buy a new one anyway." Sherlock tutted. "Really bad deducing skills it seems."

"Right. That's it." Watson grabbed the nearest cricket bat, and wielded it in front of him. Watson deflected the lamp and the coffee table leg. Then he swatted the mug of tea, the crockery splintering against the alcove in the wall. Steaming hot liquid splashed in all directions and stained the wallpaper, shards of china scattered on the floor. Watson was quite enjoying himself now. "You're going to have to do better than that!"

"What do you two boys think you are doing to my poor house? First the bullets fired into the wall, then the blood stains from the harpooned pig, and now this?" Mrs Hudson stormed into the living room, a tea towel flapping in her hand as she gasped in horror.

Sherlock and Watson looked at each other guiltily, Watson more so than Sherlock.

"I'm sorry Mrs Hudson, I'm sure John will be more than happy to clear it up." Sherlock lifted up his coat from an up turned armchair and flung it over his shoulder.

"Oh no you don't." She blocked the door way. "You're not leaving until you have cleared this room."

"But I don't want to clear up!" Sherlock slumped into a pile of cushions.

"Stop acting like a child." She scorned.

"He is a child."

"Don't encourage him. That's still no excuse. Now, both of you, tidy!"

"What about the visit to your elder sister you have been planning to see today?" Sherlock piped up.

"Always find a way out, you do. Very well, but as soon as we get back I want you on your knees, dustpan and brush in arms. Alright?" Mrs Hudson put her hands on her hips.

"Fine."

Sherlock, Watson and Mrs Hudson stood at the door of an aged cottage, in Mortehoe, Devon, owned by the most tedious woman ever to live.

When they were let into the decrepit house, a lady met them at the entrance. The lady, who looked older than her residence, resembled her younger sister, down to the slightest detail, except much older.

"Hello Maggie. It's so nice to see you again. How long since I came up to Devon? A few months? Has it _really_ been so long?" Mrs Hudson smiled, so did her lodgers, though through gritted teeth.

"Martha! So lovely for you to come! I've been expecting you for days! And who are these two young gentlemen?" Sherlock exhaled inwardly. _I told Watson it was going to be boring granny talk, she's even wearing a pink shawl, the mark of old-lady-hood…_

"That's a lovely cardigan, Mrs Adams, where did you get it?" Watson tried being sociable.

"Well, it's a funny story actually, it arrived in the post one morning, and I had no idea where it came from. I even didn't remember buying it off the online shops, I thought I must have forgotten…" _Of course you forgot! You're brain has softened over the years considerably._ Sherlock was exasperated.

Margery Adams was a perfectly kind and jolly lady, even after she was deserted by her husband, who was frequently ill and died soon after they were wed. Though she had a surprising likeness to her sister, Mrs Hudson was lucky to not have inherited such a trait that her elder had, though she didn't seem to notice. The trait being the only down side of Mrs Adams's jubilant personality: the stories.

Mrs Adams began as a cook and made recipe books for her village in the country side, the books became very popular and she began a business, which could afford her a nice retirement, but being a lonely person, she bought a few pets and the pets then bred, so she took hold of the opportunity and started a pet store. She then went on to start a florist's, a clothing shop, a tinker's, a tailor's... Most of the stores in her village belonged to her (not that there were very many to begin with), as she would never stop having new ideas and new things to sell.

As was said, Mrs Adams had a single major fault. The stories. Each time her sister, or any passer-by for that matter, came for a small chat, she would tell them how she came to her new biggest breakthrough in the market industry, and each time, she would take all the time she could possibly squeeze out of her guest. It got worse, being of a ripe old age, she wasn't a stranger to forgetfulness. Whenever she realised she had missed out a segment of her tale, she would have to begin again, and again until she finally finished the story, then she would move onto the next one. This is what Sherlock and Watson were to look forward too. They weren't particularly overjoyed.

"…and so my portable phone did come out to be worthwhile in the end. Useful little things aren't they?"

When Mrs Adams had ended another of her soporific anecdotes, Watson made a move to leave; he couldn't bare a moment more in her presence. Sherlock did likewise.

"That was very... interesting," Watson stood. "And thank you for the tea."

"We must get on our way now." Sherlock slipped on his coat. Both men exited, and just before the door closed, Watson commented:

"Thank God we've escaped. Most time wasted in my _life_." He sighed, thankful he was out. A shrill voice came back from the house.

"What was it you said?" Mrs Adams called. Watson gulped.

"He said it was boring." Sherlock slammed the door shut before she could reply.

"That was a bit rude don't you think?" Watson was flabbergasted.

"You said it, and besides, she needed to know." Sherlock shrugged smiling. Sherlock and Watson couldn't help sniggering at his blatant manner. He was right though, even if Watson knew it to be blunt and impertinent, it was the truth. No matter what, Sherlock always told the truth. Sometimes.


	3. The Station

The phone rang. He ignored it. The phone rang again. He ignored it. The phone rang again. It met its ghastly fate, slammed against the wall, like most things that annoyed Sherlock.

Sherlock was once again bored. Nothing to occupy his mind with, no case on the go, not even a mundane errand to go about. Mrs Hudson has refused to speak to him after his visit to her sister, Mrs Hudson actually found her tales enjoyable.

Watson had kindly picked up the receiver elsewhere, and found it was Lestrade with a plea for help. In Lestrade's words he made himself sound much less helpless. Watson replaced the landline and went into the living room.

"Have you still not bothered tidying this room yet?" Watson clambered over the junk Sherlock had left the day before to get to him. Sherlock was lying down in his favourite dressing gown, throwing a rubber ball he had made of elastic bands up into the air. "Maybe you should bother answering the phone once in a while. Sherlock, it was Lestrade." Sherlock sat up with a jolt, his eyes as wide as an expectant puppy's.

"A case?" Sherlock leapt up and bounded to the door.

"Err... Sherlock? Sherlock!"

"What?" He paused whilst trying to put on his coat.

"You might want to get dressed first."

Five minutes later they were ready. Mrs Hudson was coming down the stairs just as they were about to head off.

"And where do you think you are going young man? You should be dusting upstairs at the moment!"

"Sorry Mrs Hudson, urgent business to attend to!" Sherlock strode out. Watson suddenly felt her hard gaze fall on him.

"Oh... Sorry... Duty calls... Nice bracelet… Rose quartz is it?" He backed away, down the hall.

"I found it in the post, mixed up probably… Get back here!" Watson closed the door behind him.

"So, what are the details?" Sherlock stuffed his hands in his coat.

"Lestrade gave none; he thought you should see for yourself, at Whitechapel tube station."

"Have you any idea why?"

"Not a clue."

They walked in silence for the rest of the journey, while Sherlock contemplated the possibilities for Lestrade calling them to Whitechapel.

Anderson looked up as Sherlock was walking in, ready to analyse a crime scene. Instead he was met by a peeved Anderson a huffy Sgt Donovan and a strangely concerned Lestrade – being gloomy about all the dead people he saw each day wore off after a few weeks in the occupation, besides, it wasn't like it was in the job description. Sadly, it seemed tolerating detective masterminds also didn't appear, though mainly in Anderson's.

"There has been a tube bombing, many have died, and hundreds more have been severely injured, -" Anderson began.

"Oh please, this is basic stuff! You should be able to handle this with minimum strain on your little brain." Sherlock flicked Anderson's head.

"What was that for?" Anderson blinked.

"Just don't ask." Watson sighed, he didn't want the two getting into another hissy fit like last time, but he knew the chances of Sherlock having a civilised conversation with Anderson were slim.

"Sherlock, wait until he's finished his sentence at least, give the man a chance." Lestrade pushed the two apart, they were getting frighteningly close to spitting in each other's faces.

"Yeah, you really shouldn't be so rude all the time, maybe you should take a leaf out of his book." Sally took Anderson's side as always. Watson suppressed an urge giggle, to think that sentence came from the most hostile person he knew.

"Thank you, Sally." Anderson nodded.

"So we're on first name terms now are we?" Sherlock hit a nerve.

"We're colleagues, it's perfectly –"

"Innocent? I think not." Sherlock turned his attention to the previous matter. "Is it really necessary to listen to him? You of all people should know how rude he can be sometimes." He nodded knowingly at Sally.

"Yes, it is necessary." Sally paused, taking step forward. "What do you mean by _'you should know'_, because I'm not sure I like what you're implying there."

"Don't take this the wrong way, but you have a similar degree of general intelligence. You're not exactly special."

"So you're saying we're stupid then. And I suppose you think you're special? Yeah, you're right, you are special. Like those 'special' people who live in nut houses."

"Calm down, you three, you're making a scene." Lestrade looked round at the other agents in the entrance, all having too much fun to try stopping them, or not wanting to get in the middle of three furious people. Donovan crossed her arms, a grim look on her face, Anderson restrained from back talking and Sherlock ignored the instruction and continued to stay bristling, after being rubbed up the wrong way, harbouring a growing dislike of the other two. Watson suddenly couldn't take it anymore, and had to laugh at what looked like three school rivals getting a sharp telling off from the teacher who caught them mid-scrap.

"Watson, this is no laughing matter. We're witnesses to an explosion." Sherlock looked down on him.

"But… This… You… I'll shut up." Watson saw that it would be very unlikely that any of them would get how dumb they all looked. The three in the middle towered over him disapprovingly, each as haughty as the next.

Beneath them, in the twining tube tunnels, a man strolled through the wreckage, skipping over the wires, smiling. He leapt lightly over the pot holes, hands in trouser pockets, whistles echoing off the circular tunnel walls. Today he might just have made one more step towards revenge.


	4. Down and Out

It was time to travel through the underground. Sherlock went ahead into the eerie darkness; the torchlights did not travel fully into the black, only the flashes of crackling wires occasionally lit up along the tunnel.

"I wouldn't have called you down here but for the markings."

"Markings?" Sherlock's voice echoed back to Watson and Lestrade – Anderson had been refused entrance on Sherlock's orders, and Sally wasn't going to go in a dark tunnel with a psychopath, (she was then was corrected that Sherlock was a sociopath, for the billionth time).

"Half way along, in chalk. A worker clearing the debris found it, no one had been down here since the explosion apart from him and his mate, and they had no idea where it came from." Lestrade caught sight of Sherlock again. Sherlock didn't want a headlight; he claimed he had learnt to see in the dark in the short while he had apparently cat-sat for a neighbor. Why anyone would expose their pet to him is still a mystery, who knows what Sherlock could have practiced on it. Fortunately for the cat, Sherlock was a cat person, and spared it. The woman who owned the cat had a hard time getting it back into a normal routine though...

Watson came up behind Sherlock, who was standing, staring. A series of doodles populated the wall; little stick figures were inscribed on the brick, scrawled all the way above their heads and down the other side. It written in what Mrs Hudson would call 'fuchsia'.

Watson tried understanding it but found that it made no sense at all. The silhouettes looked as if in a line of circus acrobats, making atomically impossible balances, cartwheels and flips. Sherlock took out his smart phone and snapped a photo of it to study later.

"Search it. The whole tunnel."

"Sherlock, hasn't it crossed your mind that we have already done that?"

"That's irrelevant, do it." Sherlock walked up to Lestrade.

"We both know there's no point." Watson patted Lestrade on the shoulder, after Sherlock had passed out of earshot and emerged into the light again. Lestrade looked at Watson in desperation. It was hard trying to motivate a team, who had no real reason to waste their time participating in a useless activity, on the orders of someone they had no obligation to listen too. Watson led out after Sherlock and removed his head light when they got back onto the station platform. Lestrade turned on the strip lights, one clicking after another as they went along the ceiling, until they reached the opening for the tubes to enter, and stopped. The rest had been destroyed or their electricals had been ripped up or torn down: hanging, broken.

The two of them went out into the now ebbing light of the empty London streets. Sherlock had gone ahead; he wasn't the sort of person who'd wait for someone lagging behind. Lamp posts were dotted along the main road, glowing, each challenging the house by it to see which towered above the people most. The houses always won. The generally busy roads were deserted, but for the odd taxi on its way to drop off its tourists, who couldn't get an earlier flight.

After Watson had returned to 221b, rang on the doorbell when he'd forgotten his keys, found that Sherlock had refused to bother coming down the stairs to open the door, retrieved the spare keys from under the door mat and entered, he discovered Sherlock, lying on the sofa, his hands pressed together tapping his chin. Sherlock stared up at the peeling paint, Mrs Hudson wasn't able to reach it, Watson could only skim it, and the only person tall enough was impossible to get into an apron, or old clothes that could get dirty. So it wasn't an option to fix it. No point buying a step ladder just for that purpose.

"What were they?" Watson expected to hear the usual – Sherlock's snipped explanation that made no sense at all. Then he knew Sherlock would give him a look later on that read: _'We both know what's going on'_ that would infuriate Watson.

"Dancing men."

"I meant what did you think of them? Any idea what they meant?"

"An old code used mainly in the 1800s, a simple substitution code. Flags signal the end of a word, it has no punctuation, but is easy to correct once translated."

"Why did you take a photo of it then?"

"I… missed something." Sherlock quietened. "I must have."

"What w-"

"Not now, John." He snapped. "I can't… Not right now." Watson returned to the kitchen sink where he proceeded to try and wash out a beetroot stain that he had managed to get on his favorite cream sweater.

"_'Vanish – Just pink, forget stains. Stain remover.'_ I hope this works, I never usually buy this stuff… I don't even remember, Mrs Hudson must have…" He read to himself from the cleaning fluid bottle. Watson picked up a flannel and proceeded to wipe the almost neon looking, veggie juice blotch. "_'Apply gently, take a cloth and rub downwards repeatedly, you should see improvement in no time…'_" Watson mumbled.

Sherlock brow furrowed. "There must be a reason. Have I translated it wrong…?" He told himself. Watson began making them dinner. Half an hour passed until the food in the oven set off the smoke alarm.

"Sherlock!" Watson called from beneath the alarm. "What's the second code you set for the alarm, after you said pneumonoultramicroscopicsili covolcanoconiosis was too obvious, being the fourth longest word in the English language?" Watson smirked, remembering Sherlock's insistence at having the smoke and burglar alarm coordinated, so if Watson forgot the code for one, he could always remind himself of the other. Then, to prevent any robbers from resetting the burglar alarm, Sherlock gave them both a ridiculous code. Why Sherlock had codes form them in the first place was beyond Watson's understanding, but that was how it was.

"The third longest word, if you count fictional words. 183 letters and the longest word in literature: Lopado temacho selacho galeo kranio leipsano drim hypo trimmato silphio parao melito katakechy meno kichl epi kossypho phatto perister alektryon opte kephallio kigklo peleio lagoio siraio baphe tragano pterygon." Sherlock recited. "Wait – what did you ask me again?" Sherlock jumped up.

"I asked what the second code you set aft-"

"That's it! A code within a code! A _second_ code! But… what?" He flopped back down onto the couch. "Damn you second code."


	5. Chance and Thought

"I was planning on getting on that train. To think that could have been me in there… Death would be so painful, but quick at least." Molly shivered at the thought.

"It could have happened to any of us, but it didn't. So there is no point pondering over it now." Molly took the hint to be quiet and hand out the tea. "Also, you wouldn't necessarily be dead; you may have been one of those bald, mutilated bodies with all the skin burnt off them." Sherlock added.

"Sherlock, Molly doesn't want to hear all the possibilities of what she could have looked like today." Watson prevented Sherlock going into graphic detail about what you may turn out to be like after a bomb hit you, depending on how far or near you were to the center of the explosion.

"Thanks for the tea, Molly." Watson sipped his drink tentatively, bracing himself for extreme heat. He was pleased to find that his tongue wasn't burnt. Watson leant on his spare hand, resting on one of the lab experiment surfaces in the morgue. Meanwhile, Molly stood by with her own takeaway cup from Café Costa, and Sherlock made mental notes on a rock he was pacing around. No one questioned the relevance of the rock; there probably was none. Sherlock, despite having his mind centered elsewhere, had his eyes fixed straight ahead into the cage of Molly's new gerbil, Pip. Little did she know that her cat would probably not want to make friends with the rodent; Toby would more likely want to eat him. Molly's hypothesis that animals can always come to bear each other after a while, wasn't yet proved correct.

"I wish I could just... just... wipe it from existence!" Sherlock whacked his head in frustration, and glared into the eyes of an alarmed Pip, who stopped mid scoff to stare wide-eyed up at the rather frightening Sherlock, who didn't look particularly pleased at that moment. Pip emitted a little squeak and his rose pink nose wriggled in fear.

Watson almost spat out his drink. "You want to kill the gerbil?" Unbeknown to most, Watson had a soft spot for animals. Small ones mainly. When he was young, his sister was given a hamster, upon which she named him Harvey. Being reckless as she was, Watson had taken it upon himself to care for it, he grew attached to it over the short while it pooped, slept, nibbled and snuffed around in its cage. Then came the sorry day it passed away – from over eating.

"Don't be ridiculous, John. I meant the pattern. It's two codes in one, you see the first code was a simple substitution cipher, but the second I'm unsure about. It could be a keyword cipher, but it is impossible to decipher without the keyword… So far, it translates as _'Tda kapk wphg pjmlc us eb mlhy el mur ihmmk'_…" Watson tuned out at this point, partly because he knew he would never be able to comprehend what Sherlock was saying, and the other part because Pip was now sitting in straddle position; toes in the air, cheeks puffed and fluffy as always, with front paws feeding a carrot slowly into its mouth. Some follow the philosophy that if you stare at another living thing for a long period of time that is continuously performing one simple action, such as a fish opening and closing its mouth, you eventually copy them. In this case, Watson was doing just that. He took his biscuit and gnawed on it in a similar way as Pip.

"John? John! What are you doing?" He was suddenly brought out of his daze.

"Nothing…" Sherlock raised an eyebrow at the crumbs on the floor; now as fine as sawdust in a neat clump. Watson looked down to his feet. "Observation…?" He ventured, hoping they wouldn't think him mad, though of course he was talking to Sherlock Holmes. In this world you can't get more mad than that.

"Definitely an interesting way of observing. Copying the everyday actions of another creature…" Sherlock was confused for a moment, wondering if that behavior was normal for the people with the lesser intelligence. "You changed your lipstick to pink, why change it from your normal red?" Sherlock said out of the blue, still looking at Watson.

"I don't wear lipstick." Both men now shared the incomprehensive expression.

"I meant Molly, John."

"Oh."

"I was picking up a red brand in Boots, but then a man walked past and told me that I would suit pink better…" Molly shrugged.

"Don't talk to strangers, if they're advising _you_."

"Why _me_ specifically?"

"Don't worry yourself with it." Sherlock then demanded silence so he could focus in his mind palace.

Sherlock closed his eyes for a moment, trying to find his way in the dark of his brain. It must be a keyword cipher. He had concluded that already, but the keyword… that was beyond him at present. It could just be some teenage kids with their spray cans that had somehow snuck down there, after a dare or something of the sort, but Sherlock could tell that that wasn't the real situation, the obvious reasons being that it wasn't their style – too simple but complex in a way, it was in chalk too, they wouldn't want to use that sort of art tool for graffiti. It was also in the dated, 1800s substitution cipher that idiot show offs probably wouldn't bother to learn in lessons, not that it was taught. There was the other fact that it was in pink, not really the general first choice for a hard core adolescent that was risking their life, one step wrong and they were a goner. Sherlock didn't bother pursuing any other possibilities as he knew it would all circle back to the code.

Keywords. Sherlock pondered for a moment, if it really was what he thought, the writer must have intended for someone to read it, not necessarily the police though, but no, if there was a specific receiver, they wouldn't have hidden it in plain sight, even if was a bit hard to get down there. They wouldn't place it there especially after a bombing that would be crawling with agents. So the police were the targets, but they were so stupid? How on earth were they supposed to analyze it correctly, well, Sherlock was there for that. Therefore, the keyword must have been disguised in the dancing men, unless it was for a particular member of the fuzz, but they had all their files checked for criminal records and other stuff. A policeman's salary is respectable as well, and there is no logic in suddenly having a change in moral and want to explode a load of people, or be in contact with someone who did. That is if the writer was connected to the massacre.

After a long while of thinking, Sherlock had eliminated some previously possible possibilities, but had no keyword. All he knew was that the code was for the police, the code had given the keyword to them, though it be hidden, and that he was exceptionally hungry. He concluded to have lunch and think about it later.


	6. The Connection

He mulled over the day's events. Seeing people across the street shoving burgers in their mouths with grease dribbling down their chins had put him off his appetite. Sherlock was measuring the average speed of each rain drop as they dribbled down the Café's front window. Across the road the instantly recognisable 'M' of McDonald's was lit up. Cars flitted past, only a whooshing hum was audible for each vehicle. Then the door opened again, setting off the ringing bell and the next wet person craving a nice warm cuppa walked in. The sounds from outside were momentarily un-muted and Sherlock heard a mother trying in vain to soothe he tearful child.

"You want Pink Teddy? Look, here he is!" The mother waggled a fluffy bear in front of the pram. "Wasn't it nice of that man to give you him for free at the stall?" The door swung shut again and the murmurs of coffee talk returned. Sherlock tapped the table, fingers drumming in a Mexican wave. The code still eluded him.

"Sherlock, you've got to eat something -" Watson spoke out after waiting fifteen minutes for Sherlock to pick up the sandwich.

"No, John, I don't need nourishment now. A person can survive for an average of three weeks before they starve to death."

"Every single time you have a case on the go, you fast needlessly. Don't you need fuel to keep thinking?

"No, nicotine patches help me think; food on the other hand, makes one heavy and full – and unable to run."

"But you need food to live."

"That's irrelevant."

"Eat it." Watson pushed the plate closer towards Sherlock, the pastry sat on top, untouched. "First the sun was irrelevant, and now food is too…" Watson mumbled and leant back.

"I never said the sun was irrelevant, I just said the fact that we go round that particular star, is irrelevant." Watson wasn't surprised Sherlock was able to hear him muttering, he'd got used to it by now. They both finally got up to leave and Watson left a few coins on the receipt tray as he donned his jacket. As they turned their collars up to face the cold, a girl from behind the counter offered them a small card. Watson read the writing on the top: Take nine cups and get the tenth free! Watson had practiced reading upside down from when he had a psychiatrist, and she wrote notes down opposite him. They refused the offer and walked on.

"Is it just me, or do you feel as though you're experiencing déjà vu?"

"It's just you, John."

"I just mean, Mrs Adams was wearing a pink shawl, Mrs Hudson found a pink bracelet, I found a bottle of 'Vanish', whose motto is: 'Just pink, forget stains.', Molly bought pink lipstick, and there was a woman outside with a pink toy. It just reminds me of our first case. The oddest thing about it though, is that they all came from mystery sources..." Sherlock stopped strolling in his funny walk that have an aura of superiority and knowledge that need not be shared with the 'lesser mortals'. His vision stayed directed forward.

"There was one more thing that was pink, though. The code.

'John, ignoring everything you've ever said 'till now, you're a genius!" Sherlock was suddenly in a race with himself as he put on a sprint, he foolishly did not think to bring the jumbled words to the café, cafés were idle places after all. Not a place to think. As Watson tried to keep up – he was having trouble after having a filling snack and Sherlock had had a large head start – Sherlock called back to him: "I told you food didn't help you run!"

Panting like dogs, Sherlock burst in with Watson on his heels, they scaled the stairs and Sherlock began sniffing out his translation. He plucked a scrap of note paper from the desk, holding to the light to confirm, and crouched over it.

"If 'pink' is the key word…" Sherlock grabbed a pen and jotted down the alphabet with the keyword alphabet underneath:

Z

Z

"So… 'Tda kapk wphg pjmlc us eb mlhy el mur ihmmk' is transformed into… 'The dead walk among us, if only in our blood.'"

"Oh. I have to say, I was thinking it would be something more obvious… It seems that wasn't to be the case. You know what it means though? Don't you?" Watson took back his last comment after seeing the look on his friend's face. "You decoded it, isn't that good enough? Also a good enough reason to eat, by the way." Watson tried giving the situation a positive twist; it wasn't helping.

"Go away, I need to think."

Watson nodded and proceeded to the kitchen so he could create some concoction to fool Sherlock into eating. It was a surprisingly easy task when Sherlock's concentration was on other things. Despite his ingenious, Sherlock would follow orders when he didn't care for what was happening outside of his mind.

"Do you think that it could be referring to the deaths? he killer it yet to be confirmed as the writer, though." Watson hollered.

"Shut up, John. Your input was trivial and your opinions now are worthless and of no significance. Don't try and get above yourself." Sherlock replied momentarily reached from thought.

"Excuse me! I apologise if I just figured out the keyword for the code that has been tantalisingly close all along but you couldn't see it for days even when it was right beneath your nose! And I'm sorry if I managed to make a huge breakthrough in the case!"

"You should be sorry, you're interrupting my train of thought."

Watson gaped. He was getting a little annoyed that the level of credit he got for anything was always in negative numbers.

"Fine. I'll leave you to it. You won't be getting any help from me."

"John, I don't mean to offend you, but your help would be useless even to a child."

"Thanks." Watson stormed off downstairs having heard the letterbox clank. It was a little odd for the post to be delivered so late in the evening, but he didn't question the schedule of a Postman. Bending over to lift the envelope he barely registered the pale rosy hued calligraphy paper. He glanced at the name on the front. It read his name, but there was no stamp or address. Watson presumed it must be his sister trying to contact him again, the only person he knew who would bother hand delivering it. Watson travelled back upstairs tearing the top of the paper and lifted the letter out. His eyes skimmed over the words, suddenly stopping and speeding up as his focus darted from word to word and line to line. Then he paused analysing what he had read. Watson calmly replaced the note in its envelope and stashed it in his drawer. If Sherlock didn't want his help, he wasn't going to give help. Not even the most exceptionally vital clue.


	7. False Allies

As he scanned the dark print on the card, Watson wondered at the intention behind the eerie words.

'Have you worked out my little puzzle yet? Let's put that to the test.'

Below was another series of dancing men. This time, the message was of a slightly larger length and made up of a few far shorter sentences. Watson folded the paper, and he tucked it into a fold in his jumper, ensuring that the letter went unnoticed. Taking up a pen from the desk by the window, he swiftly tucked his laptop under his arm. With his other hand he held the banister, trying desperately not to race up the stairs in a fit of excitement and give his game away. Suppressing the urge, he tried to 'act natural' and keep a steady stepping pace. On the third floor, he still wasn't past the reaches of Sherlock's supernatural senses. One foot oddly placed, one millisecond of speed increased, and he would know. Luckily for Watson, he had the upper hand - he knew of Sherlock's 'basic' tactics, as he called them, and Sherlock didn't generally bother to look into the petty lives of the public with their girl gossip and boys' night out. Sherlock sure would be surprised at the more intriguing side of the people's lives, but hopefully he wouldn't find out about Watson's little deceptive plan.

Watson sighed quietly when he entered his room, and plonking himself into the bed, he flipped open the portable computer and started tapping away at the keyboard, typing into the Google search box: 'dancing men code'. He soon reached the site of a fanatic historian who had helpfully recorded all found codes from the 19th century to now and even further back, tracing into the ages of the Tudors and such, but that wasn't what interested him. There below were a series of pictures which Watson knew to be just what he was looking for. He had only to research the keyword cipher, substitute 'pink' in and he could read the letter.

When his research was completed, he marveled at his expert intuition which he knew Sherlock would duly dismiss as child's play if he ever discovered what Watson had been doing behind his back. Though if he was literally standing behind his back he'd have next to no chance - Sherlock and his brother seemed to have eyes on the back of their heads (but Mycroft had cameras in every possible corner as well), and it seemed at that moment, in metaphorical terms, all that was between Sherlock's 'second pair of eyes' and Watson, was a curtain of the detective's glossy black locks, which, in reality, was the floor of Watson's room and the ceiling of where Sherlock was lounging.

Watson had been focusing so hard on interpreting each symbol to a letter and then each letter to something that would make any sort of sense to him individually, that he had not taken in the full meaning of the words he had written. It was only when he stood back to view the whole picture that he realized what time it was. Watson sucked up a sharp intake of breath as he read the final words on his note paper. He reread it for the second time as he wondered what his next steps should be. The paper read:

'I wonder if you'll make it on time. Five sharp. The bombed station. By the writing. I'll be waiting.'

An overflow of questions flooded his mind, he breathed deeply, and decided to answer each question, one at a time. One, does this mean there is a murderer or does this mean that some creepy whiz has crept down there, identified the code, translated it, found the keyword and guessed that the famous Consultant Detective might be investigating the case, so they thought they'd pretend to be the bomber and play a prank? No, too far fetched. It must be the bomber.

Two, should he inform Lestrade and get the Police to handle it and back him up? No again, this person seems to have some brains, they'll most likely have an escape route, the Police are sometimes a bit clumsy like that, not suspecting an intelligent murderer. Wouldn't this reflect badly on Sherlock as well? Having not even known about this, the bomber would assume him to be a scared idiot handing his troubles over to the Police. No he shouldn't, not to mention the fact that Sherlock would tease him for this blundering mistake if he did. Sherlock is too vain to think that he could make a mistake, he even denies mistakes he's made in the past which Watson has helped him out of. Informing the Police was not a good idea.

Three, should he tell Sherlock? Let him meet his present nemesis? No, that would be admitting defeat, where he would have to show that his common sense meant that he should think it over with the person to whom the letter was addressed, as the manners he was taught as a child told him to do, but he couldn't risk making himself look needy, especially when Sherlock was having a particularly egotistical moment. Anyway, wasn't he brethren of his fellow soldiers, and if he had learnt one thing, there are no such things as manners in war. What about going by himself? He found it was the only, last and final option to go alone. Watson was particularly annoyed at Sherlock that day, so he though he would be up for a solo adventure.

Watson trudged downstairs, replacing his laptop on the coffee table, remembering to erase the history beforehand - it was almost impossible to tell what Sherlock would do for one reason or another, he had previously hacked into it past the code, he could do it again. Watson glanced up at the clock on the wall, he knew the time from checking his laptop screen, but he was late, and he had to hurry. The difficult part was to make sure Sherlock didn't suspect anything. Throwing on his jacket, as casually as possible, he sauntered towards the door, desperately attempting to be unsuspecting. Sherlock, half in his own world, half out in everyone else's shared one, asked nonchalantly: "Heading where?" Watson turned, leading up to that moment he had thought he had escaped, until arose this one problem.

"Out." And the door shut.


End file.
